<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>and there will be safe harbour by MashpotatoeQueen5</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23166361">and there will be safe harbour</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MashpotatoeQueen5/pseuds/MashpotatoeQueen5'>MashpotatoeQueen5</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Young Justice (Cartoon), Young Justice - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>And being safe when your brain has been screaming at you for years is hard, And tell me to my face that Bart Allen doesn't have trauma, Angst, Apocalypse, Babies, Barry Allen Needs a Hug, Barry Allen is The Flash, Barry Allen is a good dad, Bart Allen Gets a Hug, Bart Allen Needs A Hug, Bart Allen is Kid Flash, Bart Allen is Traumatized, Bart Allen-centric, Bart is EVERYONE'S kid, Because characters are little daggers we self impale in our chests, Because it's human and HEALTHY, Bring Your Kid To Work Day, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Child Neglect, Childhood Trauma, Coping, Crying, DC YOU COWARDS LET MY BOIS CRY, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, Family Dynamics, Family Feels, Food Issues, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Harm to Children, Harm to ME, Headcanon that Bruce basically becomes the go to kid person, Healing, Hugs, I dare you!, I love how Bart shows up and the Speedster Family just instantly adopts, Is Bart Dick Grayson's kid?, Is Bart the Allen's kid?, Is Bart the Garrick's kid?, Is Bart the Reyes' kid?, Is this a story or is this just me emoting??, LOOKE ME IN THE BLOODY EYE, Look me in the eye, Men Crying, Museums, Out of love, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Barry Allen, Running Away, SECOND CHAPTER WHOOT, Scars, Sobbing, Teenagers, Teenagers Dealing With Shit, The Reach are EVIL, The answer is yes to all of them, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Time Skips, Trauma, Twins, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, WHAT A TIME, Wakes &amp; Funerals, Wally West is dead, Warning: Copious Amounts of Overdue Tears Present, Why is it that my first instinct upon boredom is to write something sad, Worry, Young Justice Season 2, and Bart hates them, and I hate them, are we human or are we dancer?, hell if i know, i dare you, okay but seriously, proceed at your own risk</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 13:00:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,935</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23166361</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MashpotatoeQueen5/pseuds/MashpotatoeQueen5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Bart Allen lived during the apocalypse: it's bound to leave a few scars.</p><p>(Barry Allen worries. So do a lot of people. Bart's <em>really</em> not good at letting himself be helped.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Barry Allen &amp; Bart Allen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>65</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>414</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. drifting without harbour</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hi hello i wanted to write and all that came out was ANGST</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>They bury Wally one bleak winter morning, sunshine poking its weary head through the clouds and dressed all in black. Bart has never attended a real funeral before, but he has visited dump sites, mass graves, has stumbled upon unknown corpses of those who tried to escape and didn’t make it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He did not cry, then. He does not cry, now. People die all the time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, he thinks angrily, guiltily, just as he has done all his too short too long life, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m going to make this worth it. I’m going to make this right-</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes a week to make sure all prominent Reach are out of Earth's solar system. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes another two to round up the stragglers and send them packing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes over a month to destroy all the affiliated bases and secret underground and above ground establishments and factories.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes three months for every last line of Reach product to be utterly decimated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bart runs. He takes parts of infiltrations and destruction teams, advises Nightwing and Batman with his insider knowledge of the Reach, hunts down missing links and does near nightly races around the world just to make sure, to make </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure-</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>This mission is one he carved into his bones. He has to double check, to make the rounds, to be absolutely positive-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It still takes six months after the Reach leave the Earth before Bart finally manages to convince himself that they won't be coming back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That he </span>
  <em>
    <span>did </span>
  </em>
  <span>it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That his terrible future is probably not reality.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That it will hopefully never, never be reality.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That he's </span>
  <em>
    <span>safe.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>At first- </span>
  <em>
    <span>gods- at first-</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>At first Bart is just so- happy. He's bouncing off the walls, the smiles creep onto his face unbidden, the casual touches become less startling and strange, the food goes down easier and Bart tentatively, tentatively stops stockpiling snacks in his cupboard. Or, at least, stops stockpiling as</span>
  <em>
    <span> much.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Because-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because he did it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The future is saved. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> safe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Safe, safe, Bart watches films and stuffs himself with warm homemade meals, laughs and coos over the twins, who are happy gurgly chubby little things. He learns how to bake cookies and understand Spanish, listens to music that was never available, learns about dancing and painting and water parks and a lifetime of things he never got to experience.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bart lives. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>lives. </span>
  </em>
  <span>This is not survival, this is not constant danger, this is not a thin strung tightrope to fall off of.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bart tucks himself away in a room he calls his own, cradles soft blankets and gathers nick knacks and hoards stupid things like ticket stamps just because he can.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Safe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bart's </span>
  <em>
    <span>safe. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Bart is sitting on the couch in his uncle’s living room, listening to Barry and Iris sing along with the radio in the kitchen, the twins asleep upstairs for their afternoon nap and the TV playing softly in the background. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are reruns of Reach ships rising out of the atmosphere when he turns on the news, some sort of political commentary. Bart doesn’t know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All these things are happening all around him, moving and rushing and existing, and it’s like there's a barrier pressed to his skin, like he’s looking at the world through a personal bubble filled with water and froth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Distant, far away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It can hardly touch him. The Reach </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>touch him, and Bart-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bart-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s some sort of blockage building in his throat. Because he’s safe, </span>
  <em>
    <span>safe </span>
  </em>
  <span>and the Reach can’t touch him but so much has happened, so much has happened and it’s been non stop for so long now, for an entire lifetime-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it’s never been like this, it’s never been </span>
  <em>
    <span>safe</span>
  </em>
  <span> like this, there’s never been time to think about it, to process, not back then, not in the future. No dancing in the kitchen and afternoon naps for the little ones. No watching television. No watching anything. Survival was it, and that was only if you were lucky, and-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And survival meant you kept it together. You don’t waste water with tears. You don’t waste your breath with panic attacks. You don’t waste time by taking the minutes and hours and days needed to process, to think, to deal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which is why it comes as such a shock to Bart when he lifts his hand to his face and finds it wet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinks, and his vision is blurry: the underwater bubble has gotten caught in his eyelids. It’s sinking into him, clogging his throat, drowning him, drowning him, dragging him deep with a hundred thoughts and feelings it’s never been safe to have-</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>So many people, dead, dead, family and friends and strangers, good people, brave people, scared ones. So many of them dead and he didn’t help them, couldn’t help them, not then-</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He could have died, He should have died. He walked into that rustbucket time machine knowing his chances were slim to none. His parents raised him knowing his chances of reaching adulthood were probably lower.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s still shocking, terrifying. He almost died, a few months ago, and years and years in the future, he almost never made it to this moment, to this safety, to now, where he has so much to live for- </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He was dehumanized and numbered and collared like cattle. He was beaten and electrocuted and starved. He was a youth who never got to be a child, and he was not alone in this.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The Reach are monsters, and he hates them, hates them, hates them. He escaped them and he had had to go back on their ship, had to see the pods, had been collared. Had to face his worst nightmares and-</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Wally hadn’t made it, Wally had died, cold, lost, consumed by the speed force. Bart loved him and lost him all too soon. He hadn’t cried at the funeral. People die all the time.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And it's not fair, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thinks, and it's not, </span>
  <em>
    <span>it's not fair that he died, not fair that any of them died. It's not fair he could not bring himself to cry as if tears were wasteful and not signs that he living, that should carry these scars under his skin for the rest of his life, that this safety is unreal, is distant, is strange-</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Bart breathes. His face is wet, and he has swallowed the bubble whole. It is expanding in his chest. Too big, too small, all too real.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s never been safe to have them, these thoughts, these feelings, but it is now, it is </span>
  <em>
    <span>now-</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And Bart lifts his hands to his face and finally, </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally</span>
  </em>
  <span>, begins to sob.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Does Bart Allen Make You Cry? If so, you might be entitled to compensation...</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. safe harbour found</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i am apparently incapable of writing oneshots anymore<br/>please accept almost 4000 words of Barry Allen being a worried dad.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It starts like this:</p><p>Dick shows up at Barry’s door in civvies, gym bag slung over his back and jacket pulled tight across his shoulders. He must have had another growth spurt recently, and <em> gods </em>the boy is getting so tall. Barry remembers meeting the tiny slip of a thing that Robin once was, and wonders when they all got so old.</p><p>The young man looks tired, bags under his eyes and hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. He looks like he could actually pass as the nineteen year old college student he’s supposed to be, for once.</p><p>Barry suppresses a pang of concern. Dick’s smile is small, but his gaze is steady and serious.</p><p>“It’s about Bart,” he says, and Barry thinks <em> hyperactive grandson from the future, </em> and lets him inside.</p><p> </p><p>Joan calls him in the middle of the night. Iris’ eyes open into slits and looks at him from across the pillows reproachfully, and Barry offers her a sheepish smile, taking the discussion out into the living room.</p><p>“He’s not sleeping,” she says, her strong voice snappish in worry. “I go to check in on him and he’s pacing or on his phone or staring at the ceiling, vibrating a mile a minute. I don’t know how to <em> help, </em>Barry.”</p><p>He presses the back of his head against the wall, clenches his eyes shut. Dick’s voice is in his head, <em>“He’s really good at putting on the happy act, but don’t let it fool you. He’s hypervigilant, he keeps his backs to the walls, he’s got... scars.</em> <em>Wherever he’s from- whenever- something’s gone really wrong.”</em></p><p>The older woman is waiting for him on the other end of the line. Barry has no idea what to do.</p><p>“Are you sure it’s not just a teenager thing?”</p><p>Imagining her pursed lips is all too easy.</p><p>“I don’t think that’s it.”</p><p>Barry runs a hand through his hair.</p><p>“I know. I don’t think so either. I guess… all we can do is give him time. If we try and help him before he’s ready he’s going to take it as an invasion of trust, and he might run.”</p><p>Neither of them need to specify just how tricky that situation would be to deal with, given the kid’s powers.</p><p>“I worry about him.”</p><p>“Me too, Joan, me too.”</p><p> </p><p>Bart is eating cookies, and Barry can’t figure out why it’s bothering him.</p><p>The kid is curiously peeking at the older speedster’s desk at the precinct, foot thrumming against the floor at a pace just <em> barely </em>below inhuman speed. In one hand he’s got a plastic bag full of M&amp;M cookies and in the other he’s messing with thinking putty, something Iris had bought him when they had visited the Flash museum a month ago. </p><p>Barry had snuck him into the office under the excuse of a long lost relative. The paperwork had been finalized a week or so ago, Batman fabricating an existence for a boy who shouldn’t yet exist, and everything should be solid.</p><p>The precinct, knowing Barry’s orphan status, was incredibly enthusiastic for him, and Bart had pressed against his side at the crowding individuals even as he shot his customary thousand kilowatt grin, something tight and unnatural around his eyes.</p><p>He’d gotten the kid out of the quickly gathering mass as quickly as he could, after that.</p><p>And now they were here, and Bart was munching on cookies he had pulled out of his backpack, and there was something circling in the back of his mind at a pace of a thousand miles an hour, and he just couldn’t <em> place his finger on it- </em></p><p>And then he blinks.</p><p>Because he <em> recognizes </em> those cookies, that plastic bag with the purple smiley face sharpied onto the side. M&amp;M cookies: Iris had wanted to try the recipe and Bart had admitted to having never baked before, something curious and a little wistful sheltered behind a nonchalant mask, and that had settled their evening plans. They had returned home from the museum, piled the ingredients on the counter, and set out on making a truly <em> ridiculous </em>sum of cookies. </p><p>But that was <em> weeks </em>ago.</p><p>There’s something sinking in Barry’s gut, even as he starts pulling up tabs to show Bart the programs he uses for chemical analysis. </p><p> </p><p>He calls Jay the next day, while Bart is training with the team. Asks him to check out Bart’s room, particularly places where he might hide stuff.</p><p>Jay laughs, his heavy tread heard going up the stairs, the quiet creek of Bart’s bedroom door opening. His joking tone helps soothe some of his nerves, although the sinking feeling doesn’t fade.</p><p>“What do you think you’re gonna find, Barry? Magazines? A shrine to teenage rebellion? Oh! I know, heh, what about-”</p><p>And then the older man falls silent, and the sinking feeling utterly plummets, cold in his stomach. </p><p>“Barry, there’s an absolute <em> stash </em> of food tucked away in my kid’s closet.”</p><p>He closes his eyes: hoarding. <em> Gods, </em> he thinks, <em> Bart, what happened to you? </em></p><p>Jay’s voice sounds rough over the line.</p><p>“Barry, why is he…? There’s plenty of food. More than enough. Batman-”</p><p>Barry breathes, breathes. He had taken the extra money from Bruce- quietly, unobtrusively- to pay for extra food, because even for a speedster Bart was far too skinny. He had also taken the proposed meal plans, and shared them as quietly as possible with the Garricks and with Dick. </p><p>Last time he had been to the mountain, there had been food baskets scattered throughout the cave. He hadn’t thought much about it much at the time- a mountain full of growing teens are going to eat a ridiculous amount, after all- but now he wonders how much Bart and his insecurities had to do with it.</p><p>He clears his throat.</p><p>“It’s- Kids who experience significant neglect growing up… They sometimes start hoarding food. It’s a coping mechanism.”</p><p>There’s a sigh, and Jay sounds so damn <em> sad. </em></p><p>“Oh, <em> Bart,” </em>he says, and Barry can’t help but agree.</p><p> </p><p>It was a rough patrol.</p><p>Or, well, it wasn’t even supposed to be a patrol, per se. Bart had wanted to run and Barry had, if he was going to be honest, missed running with someone by his side, and so they had suited up and gone for a little jaunt around the world.</p><p>But upon returning to Central, there had been a robbery, and the pair of them had intervened, and there’d been an unfortunate incident with a window and a man who had to be on steroids, if not some sort of meta with mild superstrength.</p><p>Bart had gone flying, and the glass had torn up his suit something awful.</p><p>Luckily, they had finished up the situation in a flash after that, and Barry had given the boy a piggyback ride back to his house, in order to pick out all the glass surely quickly healing under the skin.</p><p>He had set Bart up on the kitchen counter, raced to grab their medkit, and when he had gotten back the kid is halfway through peeling himself out of the top half of his suit and-</p><p>There are scars on Bart’s back. Long, gnarly things that stretch across the pale expanse, stretching down from his skinny shoulders, and they must have blocked his powers, they must have <em> whipped </em>him- </p><p>Barry looks at them and-</p><p>And he quite nearly throws up, if he’s going to be honest.</p><p>He had had an idea. Dick had <em> said- </em> but he hadn’t thought, he hadn’t even considered the sheer <em> extent- </em></p><p>Bart is already so small. Bart is already so small, and he must have been even smaller, once, and someone had <em> hurt him- </em></p><p>He’s not a violent man, but Barry very suddenly wants to punch something. Someone. <em> Hard. </em></p><p>Bart finishes struggling out of his suit, turns his head to look expectantly at Barry, and he breathes roughly through his nose and tells himself to keep it together, picking up a pair of tweezers and getting to work.</p><p>Afterwards, there must be some dark expression lingering on his face, because Bart takes one look at him, stiffins, before forcing a smile and making his excuses to flee from the Allen home.</p><p>Barry lets him go.</p><p>Hours later, Iris finds him still at the kitchen table, head buried in his hands.</p><p> </p><p>Wally calls him one afternoon, trying to sound casual, mostly failing. He lets him make small talk until finally his nephew sighs and asks, quietly, “Is the kid okay?”</p><p>Barry is instantly on guard.</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>He can picture Wally shrugging. The way he must be looking up at the ceiling of his apartment, as if the tiles could somehow reveal all the world’s secrets.</p><p>“When he was over. Earlier. He nodded off while we were watching a nature documentary and then he- I’m pretty sure it was a nightmare. But <em> quiet, </em>he was just twitching and spasming and jerking all over the place. I thought he might be having some sort of seizure but then he woke up and-”</p><p>A pause. Barry’s grip is too tight on his phone.</p><p>“He looked absolutely terrified, Uncle Barry. Just for a second, a <em> millisecond </em>. Absolute terror. And then he was smiling again, like nothing had happened, and, I dunno. Just wanted to make sure he’s okay.”</p><p>Wally isn’t the biggest fan of Bart but he’s always had a heart three times too big, and Barry unclenches his fingers one by one and tries to find a suitable explanation and not betray too much of Bart’s privacy in one. </p><p>He licks his lips. Breathes.<em> Breathes. </em></p><p>“He will be, Wally. We’re working on it as best we can, and he will be.”</p><p>They move on to other things. They talk. They laugh. Wally has a paper due in a week and it’s driving him insane. Barry laughs at his suffering and offers to read through it when he’s done with the rough draft.</p><p> </p><p>He never gets the chance.</p><p><em> It should have been me </em>, he thinks, and it aches.</p><p>The sun shines during the funeral. All Barry feels is cold.</p><p> </p><p>The months pass. They mourn. Iris grows rounder every passing day, and Wally was supposed to be their godfather, and now he’s never going to meet them.</p><p>He finds himself crying at a thousand tiny things. Iris finds him sitting in the kitchen more nights then not, and takes his hands and holds on until he’s ready to come back to bed. He knows she visits the grave whenever she can, and her grief is this quiet thing she holds in her chest. Artemis stops by once or twice, and it should be impossible for someone so <em>young </em>to seem so <em>sad. </em>The Garrik’s come over and dinners are subdued affairs. The Wests have shuttered themselves inside of their home and aren’t letting anyone in at all. </p><p>Barry grieves and mourns and rages. He’s angry at the world because it refuses to stop taking the people that he loves.</p><p>He’s angry at himself, because Wally had so much <em> life </em>left in him, and none of this is fair. What future could possibly be waiting for them in the face of such loss? </p><p> </p><p>Bart continues to smile far too bright, and all the time. Barry keeps expecting for the other shoe to drop and the kid to come crashing down in fire and flames, but Bart holds them all at an arm’s length, running around on team missions and sleeping in too short intervals, laughing off any direct voices of concern. The Reach are defeated but the aftermath is drawn out, and all of the kid’s energy seems to go into the task.</p><p>The only signs that something is really wrong- beyond what they’re snooping and hypotheses have brought up- is when Bart sometimes falls still, eyes too sharp and gaze too calculating, something dark brewing in those familiar green eyes.</p><p>And then the kid will notice someone paying attention to him, and snap back to all smiles again.</p><p> </p><p>Bart’s a wonderful Kid Flash. He’s kind, and witty, and smart. He’s so <em> good </em>at being a hero, at helping others, even if he refuses to let anyone help himself.</p><p>(Seeing him in uniform makes Barry want to weep.)</p><p> </p><p>It’s Jay and Joan’s date night, so Bart is staying with them. The due date is fast approaching, and Iris is officially on maternity leave, and officially going stir crazy. Bart is acting as a welcome distraction for the both of them.</p><p>Time is slipping all too fast through his fingers.</p><p>An old movie is playing on the screen, one of those ancient Westerns with cowboys and sheriffs. He’s not sure: he mostly has it on for the noise. </p><p>On screen, someone gets shot.</p><p>He doesn’t notice Bart walk into the living room from the kitchen. He doesn’t notice the kid freeze, every facet of his being tensing. He doesn’t notice him turn tail and walk up the stairs to his commandeered guest room.  </p><p>He doesn’t notice Iris following after him some minutes later, either.</p><p>When his wife suddenly yelps, he most certainly <em> does. </em></p><p>He’s in Bart’s room in less than a second, taking in the scene in even less.</p><p>Bart is pressed against the corner, physically curling into himself, fingers clawing into his forearms, knuckles white. He’d be blurring around the edges to anyone who wasn’t a speedster, and his breathing is tipping dangerously close to hyperventilating. His eyes are distant and far away.</p><p>Iris is a few steps away, watching the boy with concern, trying to talk him down. She’s cradling her own arm, where already a painful looking welt is forming: superspeed hits would do that to you, because anything can be dangerous when moving at hundreds of miles an hour.</p><p>He can see it in his mind’s eye: Bart, panicking and terrified, Iris, reaching out to comfort him, reaching out to <em> touch- </em></p><p>And then the instinctual lashing out. Fight or Flight instincts in high gear, adrenaline soaring.</p><p>“Bart,” he says, very low and very quiet.</p><p>The kid jerks back. He jerks back like he’s been stung. Like he’s been bruised. Wide red rimmed green eyes latching onto Barry’s blue ones like a magnet, some sort of recognition filtering through.</p><p>Barry watches. His heart aches.</p><p>Bart blinks at him, blinks at him, still pressed into the corner and breathing hard. Green orbs slide past and then focus on Iris, on the bruise forming on her arm, and he flinches, breath picking up once more.</p><p>And then Bart looks at him, eyes wide and scared.</p><p>And then he’s gone.</p><p> </p><p>He's missing for over twenty four hours.</p><p>Bruce, because he is a <em> saint, </em>talks Barry down from doing a hell of a lot of stupid things, sets up his satellite to keep and eye out for their errant speedster, but admits most of his networks are Gotham based, and it's clear that Bart knows how to hide.</p><p>They can't even put out a missing persons alert, because even with paperwork legalising his existence, nobody wants anyone looking in too closely.</p><p>Barry doesn't want to say he's frantic. But he may or may not be panicking. </p><p>(He's already lost one kid. He's <em> not </em> going to lose another.)</p><p>Finally, <em> finally, </em>they get a call from the Reyes residence. Or, well, Kaldur gets a call that is then sent forwards to some very worried speedsters and co. It’s agreed that Bart will spend the night and they’ll come pick him up in the morning.</p><p>Barry doesn’t sleep, and Iris doesn’t either, intermittently squeezing his hands.</p><p>And when they <em> do </em>pick the kid up, Bart is, somehow, still smiling. It’s forced and awkward, shoulders up to his chin as if expecting a blow. Jaime is besides him, looking back and forth between his friend and the group of worried adults, shifting awkwardly on his feet.</p><p>Then Jay runs forward and envelopes Bart in a hug, and then Joan is there, and then Barry and Iris are coming into. The panicky feeling in his chest begins to subside, even though the youngest speedster is standing awkwardly and stiff limbed within their hold.</p><p> Nothing happened. Everything’s okay. Bart is <em> okay. </em></p><p>Iris is wearing long sleeves, and the kid’s eyes seem drawn to the cover bruised. </p><p>They need to talk about this. They need to emphasize how disappearing isn’t okay or helpful. They need to figure out what the hell happened in the future that hurt Bart so badly. They need to get him therapy. <em> So </em>much therapy.</p><p>But the boy’s skittish and jerky, keeping up a smile while seemingly half expectinging to be punished. They can’t help him when every reaching hand is going to be perceived as grasping claws.</p><p>So they hold him, and trade glances over his head, and try to figure things out.</p><p> </p><p>Iris goes into labour a month later. </p><p>Everything goes remarkably well, all things considering. </p><p>Barry is a dad, and his heart is soaring in his chest. Don has his hair, and Iris’ eyes, and Dawn’s head has all these hardly there tufts of red. The twins are tiny and purply and pruny, and they’re beautiful and he’s so goddamn <em> proud. </em></p><p>And still a part of him is whispering, <em> Wally’s eyes, Wally’s hair, </em>and everything aches.</p><p>His nephew should have been here.</p><p>He’s crying happy tears, and sad tears, and there are too many emotions clamped up in his chest.</p><p>They’re both so <em> small. </em></p><p>“Bart,” he says, and the young teen jerks from where he’s watching with an awed gaze from the corner of the room. He’s gangly and growing taller by the day, finally putting on some much needed fat and muscle.</p><p>He must have been this small, once. Maybe even smaller.</p><p>Barry swallows.</p><p>“You wanna hold him?”</p><p>And Bart glances at Iris, who nods encouragingly, and glances at the Garricks, who gesture him forwards, and slowly steps closer.</p><p>He hands him the little bundle, and the kid awkwardly cradles him. Don fusses, little arms flailing, and then settles.Something ever so slowly relaxing in the teen’s wiry frame.</p><p>When he speaks, his words are so quiet they would hardly count as a whisper.</p><p>“Hey, dad.”</p><p>And just that. Nothing else. Barry wraps his arms around the teen’s shoulders and tucks him close, and for once he doesn’t stiffen.</p><p>The future, suddenly, doesn’t seem so bleak.</p><p> </p><p>Iris suddenly cuts off mid-riff, the radio singing onwards without its impromptu karaoke partner. She's frowning, head tilted to the sides, and Barry instinctively turns to search for trouble when he hears it, too.</p><p>Crying.</p><p>They’ve gotten used to the sound, really, young parents with newborns tend to assimilate quite quickly. But these are not the keening wails of infants, noise left to fill in the space where there are no words. </p><p>This was <em> sobbing. </em> Deep and broken and dragged out of the chest like they were made out of glass shards. And Barry looked at Iris and then he was gone, <em> gone, </em>because the only other person in the house was-</p><p>Bart,<em> Bart </em> , sitting on the sofa and crying his eyes out, crying like it hurt. His face in his hands and his shoulders, his narrow shoulders, they tremble and <em> shake.  </em></p><p><em> This is a good thing, </em> he tries to convince himself, <em> Crying means acknowledging and processing negative emotions. It’s a good thing.  </em></p><p>But he was not expecting it to hurt so much, to see this kid, <em> his </em> kid, curled up so small on the couch, falling apart and clutching at his hair like it was the only thing holding him together. He was not expecting the way each sob would resonate with him, echoing, shaking inside his own chest.</p><p>“Bart,” he says, uncertain and terrified of making the wrong move. Iris is behind him, hip cocked against the entrance to the living room, face sad and tense. He wants to touch, to hold, to wrap his arms around this kid and never let go.</p><p>But he doesn’t know if it will help.</p><p>“Kiddo,” he says, because he has to say <em> something, </em> “I’m here, sweetheart. And Iris is here. And the twins are upstairs. You’re <em> safe. </em> We’re safe. We’re not going to let anyone hurt you.”</p><p>And Bart’s blurry green eyes snap into focus, latching onto his own. Barry holds his gaze and lifts his hands, palms up and fingers splayed.</p><p>“Can I touch you? Is that okay? ….Bart?”</p><p>But Bart is no longer listening. His breath hitches, once, twice, and then he’s <em> slamming </em> into Barry’s chest, arms wrapping around his shoulders and wet face burrowing into his neck. He’s shaking and shuddering and crying, but he’s <em> here, </em> allowing himself to be held, to be <em> helped, </em>and Barry breathes in something like relief.</p><p>“I’ve got you, kiddo.”</p><p>He thinks of baby steps. He thinks of hours of worry and lost sleep. He thinks about mistrustful eyes hidden by a brilliant grin, stretching scars and hollowed ribs. The way Bart twitches in his nightmares, and never makes a sound.</p><p>But he also thinks of afternoons spent in museums, baking and watching movies. He thinks about Bart <em> finally </em> reaching a somewhat standard level of weight for his age. He thinks about how the kid laughs now, not blaring and bright like it was at first, but <em> real. </em></p><p>It will always amaze him, the sheer amount of strength that can be carried in little bones.</p><p>Iris comes up behind him and starts stroking the boy’s hair. Barry offers her a wane smile and pulls Bart closer, tucking his head under his chin.</p><p>Later, they’ll talk. Later, they’ll figure things out. They have an entire future ahead of them and it’s nothing less than bright.</p><p>Barry thinks about Wally, and it aches.</p><p>Barry thinks about Wally, and it resonates deep inside his chest. Grief is just love with nowhere else to go: it does not stop just because the person it was meant for is gone.</p><p>Wally was a young man whose heart was too big. He was brilliant and funny and kind, and so full of life. </p><p>Barry aches, but he will not let it stop him from living because his nephew would never have let him hear the end of it. Bart huddles in his arms and cries for a thousand things he does not name. Barry holds him and murmurs any comfort he can think to give. There is grief and there is crying and there is so much pain, and it comes pouring out in rivulets and hiccups, on and on and on.</p><p>Choosing to be vulnerable is one of the bravest things one can do. To be vulnerable is to be helped, when you need it, when you <em> want </em>it, and know it is simply because you are loved.</p><p>“You’re going to be just fine,” he murmurs into auburn hair, and he means it. </p><p>Somewhere, the sun is rising. Warm, and safe, and ready for a better tomorrow.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hope you enjoyed &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>